


Counter Clockwise

by knullabulla



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deja Vu, Gen, Mirror Universe, Suicide Attempt, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-08 09:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12251478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knullabulla/pseuds/knullabulla
Summary: "The problem with Thomas Barrow’s life was quite simple: the problem with Thomas Barrow’s life was Thomas Barrow.  The problem with warroB samohT’s life was Thomas Barrow."





	1. Down the Drain

The mirror in the lavatory was fogged over with steam; and as the last of his other self disappeared behind a veil, he whispered to himself, “This is where I end.”  He slipped off his livery jacket and methodically undressed to his union suit.  Atop the neatly stacked pile of clothes, he placed a simple brass pocket watch—a gift from his father on his fourteenth birthday and a constant reminder of the last time he had a place to call home.

 

And as he did so, his other self quietly wiped away the mist and gazed from the other side of the mirror.  Water swirled down the bathtub drain. _noitcerid gnorW_ , he murmured. as he watched the hypnotic, clockwise spiral. The man on the other side of the mirror began to grow fearful; although he only had memory of the NOW, he knew that there were times when he—

 

The mirror fogged over again, and the man in the mirror wiped at it frantically, shuddering that he had so easily vanished from existence.  _dne I erehw si sihT._

 

It was the water. _noitcerid gnorW_ , he thought as he slowly twirled his finger counter clockwise against the inside of the mirror until the water obeyed. _dooG_ , he thought with satisfaction, not noticing that the hands of the pocket watch had changed direction as well.


	2. Gears and Cogs

_ddo s’tahT_ , samohT thought idly as he watched the blood—which hitherto had been blooming in lovely curlicues of crimson in the water—slowly retreat back into Thomas’s veins.  Comprehending physiques had never been one of samohT’s strong points.  After all, how could one really make sense of notions of space and time when one’s existence was only in the NOW?  Perhaps the world had always been moving in lovely curlicues flowing backwards, but samohT simply hadn’t found just the right polished surface to observe it?

 

Existence was a rather fickle mistress, samohT concluded as he watched Thomas’s undergarments return to a starched white and Thomas’s clothes unfold from their pile and return to his body.  How silly of samohT to assume that the world moved from right-to-left when _clearly_ it moved from one NOW to another NOW.  And sometimes NOW happened more than once.

 

And so, samohT did not fret when he found Thomas gazing at him in repetition of another NOW.

 

  _noitcefni ytsan a tahW_ , he tutted to himself as Thomas poked at an angry abscess upon his hip.  In the other NOW, samohT had tried his hardest to see a scar but Thomas refused to turn his body the right way.  (Were he one to question the particularities of reality, samohT may have questioned how he even knew to look for a scar—but such acts of metacognition did not come easily to him).

 

samohT continued through the archival record of NOW, blipping in-and-out of existence upon whatever objects could hold his reflection for a fleeting moment in that thing Thomas called _time_ —looking glasses and windowpanes, polished silver serving trays and pilfered spoons, hubcaps and pools of water on moonlit nights—until the coiling spring in the pocket watch snapped apart and its cogs spilled onto the ground like viscera. 

 

And samohT found himself looking at John Bates looking at Thomas, who was going to say—

 

“nus eht ekil I,”  samohT whispered; but instead of mirroring the words back as he should have done, Thomas lifted his head and looked into samohT’s eyes. “em raeh uoy naC?” samohT asked and Thomas nodded his head very slowly.

 

Thrilled at having found a way to communicate with this man who always seemed to live his life left-to-right instead of right-to-left, samohT decided to reflect back the multitudes of NOW that he had collected.  And because samohT could only exist in the NOW, he did not fret that tears began to flow down Thomas’s cheeks.

 

“Thomas?” Bates prompted, his voice edged with concern, “Just give me the weapon.  Tell me _something_ that can be used against her.”

 

“It won’t make a difference,” Thomas whispered, “Thank you for offering to help, Mr Bates.  But as I said, I know when I’ve been beaten.”


	3. Catch 22

“Her ladyship’s soap,” Bates muttered under his breath, barely aware that he had even made the utterance.

 

“What does _that_ mean?” Anna asked her husband, her eyebrows knitted together in concern.  Ever since he returned to their cottage after his failed attempt at helping Thomas, he had been in the most peculiar mood.

 

“Hmm?  Oh, for some reason I’ve had that phrase stuck in my head all afternoon.  _Her ladyship’s soap, her ladyship’s soap, her ladyship’s soap_.  Damned if I know where it came from….”

 

Anna grinned as she jested, “Well, maybe if you hum a few bars, we can dance to it?”

 

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with this tune.  I just— I just can’t help feeling that there was something that I was supposed to do.  Not that I’ve been much help today,” he sighed.

 

“Now, Mr Bates, you know perfectly well that Thomas has brought this mess upon his own head— _oh, stop looking at me like that!_ He’s been absolutely horrid and— OK, fine.  I feel pity for him ( _even if he is getting his just deserts_ ) but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

 

Bates smirked at her.  “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

 

* * *

 

 

He was going insane.  It was the only logical explanation.  The emotional strain of being dismissed without a reference had taken its toll and now his mind was cracked like a soft boiled egg.  Reflections aren’t supposed to be _wrong_.  Reflections aren’t supposed to be anything.  Reflections just are.

 

And yet, Thomas’s reflection had changed.  For one thing, it looked quite a bit older with flecks of silver in its hair and worry lines around its eyes.  And its livery was wrong—and not just become Thomas wasn’t _wearing_ any livery—its livery wasn’t Thomas’s usual footman’s uniform but rather something more similar to what a butler might wear.

 

 _An under butler_. The thought flittered in-and-out of Thomas’s mind as though whispered from another time and place.

 

He was going— no, scratch that, he had _gone_ insane.  He was most assuredly and most _currently_ a complete nutter.  As if to confirm the assessment, the reflection lit up a fag and blew smoke out of its nostrils like a dragon causing Thomas pangs of envy, having already smoked the last one in the carton earlier that evening.

 

He was insane, but he didn’t feel insane.  Although, that was probably something all nutters say.  _Oh, look at me! I’m perfectly normal and quite right in the head.  Wouldn’t you agree, Genghis Khan riding atop a giant purple hedgehog?_   But then, if he _was_ insane, he wouldn’t be able to know the difference….

 

He was starting to give himself a headache.

 

The simple fact was that he had seen a glimpse of what he suspected to be the future reflected back to him in the mirror.  There were moments when he looked _almost_ happy; but more often than not, the man in the mirror seemed to abhor allowing Thomas even the most fleeting of glances as though it knew that, in the end, Thomas wouldn’t wish to look at himself.

 

And so, as if driven by a compulsion, Thomas found himself stepping out of his bedroom.  

 

As he walked past Alfred and Jimmy standing in the hallway, he mumbled as though reading from a manuscript, “I’ll be taking a bath.”  And Jimmy scowled at him, grumbling quite audibly that he couldn’t possibly care less what _the pervert_ did so long as he was gone as soon as possible.

 

 _Andy didn’t care much about you taking a bath either, did he?  This is how they all see you._ Thomas didn’t know who Andy was, but the voice whispering in his head was right.  A sick and twisted pervert really _was_ how they all saw him.

 

And so he stood in the lavatory as water swirled counter clockwise down the bath tub drain.  His razor clutched in his hand.

 

“This is where we end,” he told the reflection that wasn’t quite him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an English teacher even if my lack of proofreading belies the notion. So like any good English teacher, I like to give writing prompts. Oh, commenters of mine, do please answer the following: Is the person we see in the mirror a true reflection (ho! ho!) of who we really are?


	4. Seven Years Bad Luck

samohT was quite giddy watching Thomas stand before him, holding the razor in his hand as he swayed slightly in front of the mirror.  This particular iteration of NOW was quite different from all the others—and wasn’t it simply marvelous to come to know that _this_ NOW was only one of many?—and samohT was quite eager to share this newfound knowledge with Thomas.

 

The idea that something other than NOW could exist was utterly alien to samohT.  And yet, he could remember— He could remember! Had that happened before? No.  It had only ever been NOW.  He shut his eyes in the NOW and opened them in the NOW and the NOW was all that had ever existed.  

 

But in the bedroom—and there it was! A NOW that came before this one—in the bedroom he had shown Thomas a whole collection of NOW.  And surely, this act had pleased Thomas, for he had come to the lavatory, where the NOW twinkled like silver wind chimes on a December morning.

 

 samohT waved at Thomas through the glass and was delighted to see that, after only the slightest sliver of hesitation, Thomas did the same.  _dnarg woH!_ thought samohT.  After a lifetime of being asked to do everything that Thomas did, Thomas was finally returning the favor.  Truly, it was the least Thomas could do, for he could be terribly unkind to samohT, calling samohT _stupid_ and _ugly_ and _queer_.  samohT did not know what _he_ could have done to deserve such abuse—hadn’t he always obeyed Thomas’s whims?—so it really was quite a happy change to see Thomas taking on the title of mimic.

 

 _won thaW?_ he had only ever been the marionette.  Pulling the strings seemed to come so easily to these creatures on the other side of the glass.  Perhaps it was a bit of a cheat; but until samohT could better understand this change between Thomas and himself, perhaps it would be best to stick with a NOW of Thomas’s own?  Surely, Thomas would know how to do justice to NOW.

 

Memory was something quite new to samohT, but he was certain that the lavatory contained a very strong NOW.  Oh, yes! The lovely red spirals in the bathtub water.  In _that_ NOW, the water was wrong, but samohT had fixed the direction of the water, so surely this NOW would be better!

 

And so, samohT performed a pantomime for Thomas, telling him the tale of razor and the lovely red water.  And Thomas showed how much he appreciated samohT’s efforts by matching his every movement. Off came their shoes and off came their trousers.  And into the clear water they sank.  And against their wrists the razors slid, dripping lovely red spirals into the water.

 

What a lovely performance for them both!  And this was the NOW when the lovely red would slide back up Thomas’s arm and back into his ivory wrists.

 

But it didn’t.

 

Instead, the red continued to flow out of Thomas, and samohT remembered his fear from the other NOW.  That this would be the last NOW.  He tapped against the inside of the glass, trying to catch Thomas’s attention.  The blood ( _evila su speek dlooB. elivA. elivA. elivA. eliva mih speek doolB._ ) needed to stay inside of Thomas, or what would happen to samohT?  

 

Fearing for his life for the first time—for up until NOW, he didn’t even know that he had life—samohT threw his entire weight against the mirror, causing the looking glass to rip away from where it was nailed to the wall.  And for a single NOW, the mirror hovered in the air before crashing upon the ceramic tile floor, shattering into a thousand glinting splinters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
>  
> 
> Just kidding. 
> 
> Question: If we knew that our reflections could have memories, how might our behavior change?


	5. Stardust

“ _I’ll be taking a bath_.  What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Jimmy grumbled the moment the lavatory door had shut, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

 

“I’m not sure he should even be _allowed_ to use the same washroom as the rest of us,” Alfred noted, “What if he _does_ something?”

 

Jimmy steady nod of agreement quickly gave way to confusion, “Does something? Huh? Like what?”

 

“How should _I_ know? You’re the one the sicko is trying to— trying to— trying to do _stuff_ with in the middle of—“

 

“Stuff _to_ ,” Jimmy interrupted through gritted teeth, “trying to do stuff _to_.  There was absolutely no ‘with’, _thank you very much_.”

 

“I’m just saying….”

 

Jimmy snorted derisively through his nostrils, “Yeah.  He’s probably rubbing his arse all over the towels.”

 

“Gross!” Alfred half shrieked, half laughed in disgust.

 

“Hope you didn’t leave your toothbrush in there.  He’s probably sticking it up his—“

 

**_CRASH!_ **

 

A cacophony of glass shattering stopped Jimmy short, and both he and Alfred instinctively tensed at the sound.

 

 _What the fuck was that?_ Jimmy mouthed, his heart beating too wildly for him to form proper words, but Alfred just shook his head and shrugged slightly.

 

“What in the King’s name is going on out here?!” Carson bellowed as he stomped out of his bedroom.

 

“I… uh… I think it came from the men’s washroom, Mr Carson,” Alfred managed to explain.

 

“Thomas is in there,” Jimmy added.  And then for good measure, “He said he’d be taking a _bath_.”

 

The hairs on the back of the butler’s neck began to stand on end as an oddly familiar sense of foreboding washed over him.  He walked swiftly to the lavatory door with Jimmy and Alfred following closely behind like a pair of lost ducklings.

 

Giving two sharp raps upon the door, he called out, “Thomas? What was that noise just now? What is going on in there?”

 

Silence.

 

Knocking at the door a half dozen times in rapid succession, Carson called out again, “Thomas!  I insist that you open this door at once!”  Beads of perspiration were beginning to form along his brow as the foreboding grew to a crescendo.

 

“Maybe we should…?” Jimmy asked as he nudged his right shoulder forward in explanation.

 

With a nod of Carson’s head granting permission, Jimmy ran full tilt at the door, slamming his shoulder into it… and promptly bounced off the solid surface, clutching his shoulder as he yelped in pain.  “Guh!” he cried out.

 

“I’ve got it, Mr Carson,” Alfred said as he administered a well-aimed foot to the door.  Two sharp kicks, and the door swung open.  

 

Shoving his way past Alfred to see inside, Jimmy gasped in horror at the carnage revealed.  Thomas was slumped over in the bathtub, and at first glance, Jimmy thought that maybe the blood pooling around him was the result of the tiny pieces of broken glass that seemed to cover Thomas’s skin like twinkling stardust.  It was as though the broken mirror had thrown itself over Thomas like a blanket.  But then he saw that Thomas was still wearing his pants and vest.  And there was far too much blood to—

 

“Dear Lord, he’s cut his wrists,” Carson gasped.  He stood in shock for a moment longer before snapping into action,  “James! Quickly! Run and fetch Dr Clarkson.  And tell no one what you’ve seen here! Go!”

 

And Jimmy ran down the corridor hallway, down the back staircase, and out the door at the back of the house.  And with his feet slamming against the cobblestones as he ran until his lungs screamed for mercy, all he could think—even though it didn’t make a lick of sense—was, _He’s your best mate.  How can you do this to your best mate_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the idiotic homophobic dialog being spouted by a couple of homophobic idiots. I'm pretty sure I lost a few braincells writing that.


	6. A thousand lives to live

“Steady on,” he can hear Dr Clarkson mutter, and he realizes that he has been whimpering.  “You have a fair number of lacerations that still need tending.”  The sting of a needle and pulling of thread on his left shoulder help drive home the message.

 

Struggling to open his eyes, Thomas whispers, “Wha— what happened?”  He finally manages to open his eyes, but his vision is blurred.  “What happened,” he asks again, “Why are you…?”

 

“You don’t remember?” Clarkson’s voice is a mix of incredulity and concern, and Thomas is at a loss for what that might mean.  Clarkson sighs and he sounds very, very tired when he tells Thomas, “You cut your wrists.  You are very fortunate to be discovered before it was too late.”  It sounds almost as though it wasn’t the first time the doctor had needed to explain something like this to him.

 

He shifts slightly and hisses as freshly made sutures tug at his wrists.  “…I was dreaming.”

 

“Dreaming?”

 

His vision has begun to clear and he can see that he is lying in his bed with a thin blanket covering him; through a stifling layer of ennui, he wonders if he should feel embarrassment at being naked.  “The mirror… The mirror said that none of it will matter….” Thomas mumbles groggily.  He hears the floorboards creak and looks to see Carson standing at the foot of the bed.  Dr Clarkson is sitting to his left, a suture kit balanced atop the small bedside nightstand.  “He hates me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jimmy backs away from the door and collides into Alfred.  He knows that he shouldn’t be listening in, but Mr Carson had left Thomas’s bedroom door slightly ajar and the temptation was overwhelming.  He feels sickened and the emotion must be evident upon his face, for Alfred gives a jerk of his head and Jimmy follows him to the end of the hall.

 

“I did this,” Jimmy says once they are out of earshot.  “I did this.”

 

Shaking his head, Alfred tries to reassure him, “You’re not responsible for what Thomas does.  It was probably the guilt of—“

 

“I wanted him out of the house, but I didn’t want him to….” Jimmy’s voice trails off momentarily. “He thinks I hate him.”

 

 _Well, don’t you?_ Alfred thinks but does not say aloud— he doesn’t need to.

 

“I didn’t want him to kill himself!” Jimmy objects to Alfred’s unspoken question.  And once again, a voice whispered at the back of his mind: _He’s your best mate.  How can you do this to your best mate_.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it takes a total of 37 stitches to close up the myriad of cuts and tears crisscrossing his body, and Thomas falls into a restless slumber.

 

Dr Clarkson and Mr Carson stand to one side, their voices kept low so as not to be overheard.

 

“What do you make of it?  The _mirror_ telling him that he should…?” Carson is unable to complete the thought.

 

The doctor shakes his head, “I wouldn’t chalk much up to anything he says for the next few days.  He’s likely experiencing a degree of shock from the blood loss.  Do you have any idea why he would…?”

 

Carson hesitates before offering an abbreviated version of the story, “Thomas had made… an unwanted… _advance_ towards another member of the staff… and he was to be dismissed.”

 

The doctor nodded his head slightly as though pondering something.

 

“…without a character reference,” Carson blurts, his cheeks flushing slightly as he waited for Clarkson to object that being denied a reference after ten years of work over a _simple_ flirtation was—

 

“I’m not going to play coy, Mr Carson.  You and I both know well enough that Thomas’s nature is… well, I did try to tell him that harsh reality is preferable to….” Clarkson’s voice trails off.  When had he spoken to Thomas about rejecting false hope?  The memory had so clearly flashed through his mind, and yet now it seemed like it had happened to a completely different person.

 

“Doctor…?” 

 

“Sorry… my mind wondered for a moment.  I would say that the most likely explanation is that Thomas suffered a… nervous breakdown.  His psyche was simply unable to cope with the stress of his pending unemployment,” Clarkson theorizes.

 

“I see,” Carson replies as he takes in the doctor’s words.  “I have myself to blame.”

 

“No, no.  Sad to say, for men with… abnormal natures, suicide rates are unfortunately quite high.  I’m afraid that Thomas’s actions may simply have been inevitable.  I suggest giving him more time to adjust to the realities of his situation before making any further steps to end his employment.”

 

“And if he’s not able to adjust?”

 

Clarkson looks grim as he replies, “Then I’m afraid that he will require more help than you or I can offer.”

 

* * *

 

 

He is five years old and distorted in the scuffed finish of a brass cog.

 

He is nine years old and rippling in a small puddle.

 

He is fourteen years old and his bruises look back at him from a darkened shop window.

 

A thousand moments reflected in tiny shards of glass.  samohT experiences a lifetime of reflected moments as the mirror shatters on the washroom floor.  A lifetime of being looked at with ever increasing hatred and pity.  How samohT despised being pitied.

 

In that moment, he considers and reflects as only a reflection can consider and reflect.  And he concludes that the problem with Thomas Barrow’s life was quite simple: the problem with Thomas Barrow’s life was Thomas Barrow.  

 

The problem with warroB samohT’s life was Thomas Barrow.

 

But that could be fixed quite easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is coming up pretty soon... so I hope you will indulge me as things take a slightly sinister turn.
> 
> Question: if you were to dress up as your evil twin, what would you wear? Alternative question: if you're already the evil twin, what would you wear to convince everyone that you're the good one?


	7. Batter Up!

The day of the House vs Village cricket match had finally arrived, and with her best hitter convalescing in an attic bedroom, the House was being trounced quite thoroughly.Despite the setback, Robert found himself to be in a jolly enough mood—that is, until a vehicle pulled up to the edge of the lawn and two stern-looking gentlemen stepped out.Instinctively, Robert knows that they are plains-clothed policemen, and he immediately trots over to greet them.

 

“Lord Grantham, I presume?” Inquired one of the men.“Inspector Stanford, York Police.This here is my partner, Sergeant Brand.We’re here to speak to you about… about….”The man blinks slowly, as though suddenly cognizant that he has left home wearing only his pants and vest. _Why the_ bloody hell _had they driven all the way out to Grantham?_

 

“Yes, of course!” Lord Grantham interrupted, “I’ll go fetch Alfred for you!”

 

As the aristocrat turned heel and briskly walked away, Brand scrunched his forehead in confusion, “Who the hell is Alfred?”

 

“Beats me

 

——

 

 

Appealing to the young footman’s better nature, Lord Grantham implored, “Alfred, Thomas doesn’t wish to—“

 

“He doesn’t wish to be the way that he is.Yes, m’lord, I— I know that.”Alfred knew that it was horrifically impertinent to interrupt his lordship, but… “But, m’lord, I… I _didn’t_ call the police.”

 

“Let he who is without sin cast— _what?_ ” Lord Grantham blinked in surprise.He had an entire speech already prepared and ready to go, after all.

 

“I said, I didn’t call the police,” Alfred repeated.

 

Lord Grantham blinked at the tall, ginger-haired young man.Nonplussed, he inquired rather lamely, “You didn’t?”

 

“I thought about it, but then a— a voice said— just like you said— _he who is without sin…_ ,” Alfred stuttered out the explanation, wondering if he should mention that the voice sounded oddly like Lord Grantham’s.“I _didn’t_ call the police, m’lord.”

 

——

 

In the end, Thomas was _not_ led off in handcuffs by York Police Department’s finest.In fact, the two officers were quite apologetic; for no conceivably logical reason, and completely by their own volition, they had driven all the way from York to question a man who had never been reported for any crimes whatsoever.It was all quite odd.


	8. Things Are Starting to Creep Up

Matthew was in a restless mood.Although he specialized primarily in business law—making sure that all the “t”s were crossed and all the “i”s were dotted on this-or-that acquisition form—he was also a strong believer that all men had a fundamental right to due process.So, it didn’t sit well with him to hear that Thomas Barrow— _his brother-in-arms during the war_ —had very nearly been questioned by the police without a solicitor present.Making matters even worse was the fact that _this time_ there was the added wrinkle of Thomas’s attempted—

 _“This time?” What on God’s green earth does that even mean?_      

With that unsettling thought in mind, he made his way up to the attic bedrooms, prepared to offer his services _pro bono_ , should Barrow be further harassed by law enforcement.  

Of course, Matthew’s restless mood did not ease in the slightest when, Barrow’s first words upon seeing him were: “Mr Matthew!  You’re alive!”

 _So, that’s what it feels like to have someone walk across one’s grave_ , Matthew thought as he involuntarily shuddered.  Pushing the sickly sense of prescient foreboding to the back of his mind, he forced himself to smile and reply that he was _indeed_ alive—or, at least, the last time he checked he was.

“I’m glad,” Barrow replied quietly.  “Master George needs you.”

Matthew blinked in confusion.  “I’m sorry, who is that?”  The name _George_ had a nice ring to it, he had to admit.  He was quite certain that Mary would wish to add it to their ever-growing list of potential baby names.

“He’s your…” Thomas began to say, but then his voice trailed off to a faint whisper. “Oh, sorry… he won’t be here for another year, will he?”

“Are you feeling alright, Thomas?” Matthew inquired wearily.  “Perhaps… perhaps, I ought to have someone fetch Dr Clarkson?”

Thomas shook his head and felt his stomach lurched, much the same way it will or would or did lurch as the boat lurched in choppy transatlantic waters.  He wasn’t entirely certain when in the past (or was it in the future?) he will or would or did accompany his lordship to America.  Time no longer made much sense at all.  It was a rather disconcerting feeling for the son of a clockmaker.

“No, Mr Matthew, I’m fine.  I’m just— I’m just groggy.”  Despite having come to accept that he had completely and utterly lost his mind— _Perhaps, I ought to check under the library sofa?  Tiia keeps losing her chew toys under there. Maybe, that’s where my sanity has gone?_ —Thomas was none-to-keen about having his status as a certified nutter being rubber stamped by the folks who ran the place with the padded rooms.  “Thank you for asking, sir,” he added, hoping that he hadn’t been staring vacantly into space for as long as he suspected he had done.

“If you’re quite certain?” Matthew asked.  And when Thomas nodded his head, all he could think was, _At least one of us is_.  Matthew couldn’t quite shake the feeling of—well, _deja vu_ would describe the polar opposite of what he was experiencing—it was almost as if he was reliving a chapter in his life but someone had decided to rearrange and rewrite the pages.  “Well, I know you are in need of your rest, Thomas, so I’ll make this quick.  Should you find yourself in need of assistance— ah, legal assistance, that is to say— I am at your service.”

Thomas blinked in confusion and mumbled, “That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.”  Wasn’t he supposed to have a promotion by this point?  He felt his mind cloud momentarily as past, present, and future once again began to collide.  “Are you sure that’s something you really want to do, Mr Matthew?  Represent a guilty man?”

Matthew raised an eyebrow, “Just speaking purely in hypotheticals… Why would—hypothetically speaking, of course—why would one think of someone in your, again, hypothetical situation as… hypothetically guilty?”

The last time Mr Matthew had offered legal advice to Thomas—and it was quite odd to think that it might no longer be the _last time_ —Thomas had used it to escape from a rat infested and blood soaked trench.  It was quite possible that the war simply hadn’t happened yet and that the horrors were yet to come.  Reluctantly, he lifted his left arm and gazed at the back of his hand.  The gnarled scar was still there.  

Rather than shrink back in horror or lunge at Thomas in anger, Matthew smiled, “You don’t _really_ believe that I didn’t know what you were planning, do you?  Thomas… I told you what needed to be done to go home because… well, by God, _somebody_ needed to come back alive!”

“I’m am a known deviant who lives his life in opposition to the laws of both God and man,” Thomas said blandly as though reading from a script.  

“I once wore Mary’s knickers to dinner because she said it sounded _intriguing_ ,” Matthew replied without batting an eyelash.

“Really?! Why?!” Thomas exclaimed before his brain had a chance to catch up with the impertinence of his tongue.

“Like, I said, she said it sounded _intriguing_ ,” Matthew shrugged.  “By the bye, I wouldn’t recommend it.  Gets up into the darnedest places.”

 _I can only imagine_.

“My point, Thomas,” Matthew asserted firmly, “is that I _will not_ judge you.  Not now, not ever.”

Thomas feeling his throat close up with a welling of emotion, simply nodded.

“Well, I’ll let you get your rest,” said Matthew as he left the room


End file.
